


You Brought the Colours Out

by theharellan



Series: I Have Found a Home (Ian x Solas) [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Early in Canon, Flirting, Haven (Dragon Age), Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Other, Roleplay Logs, Roleplay Repost, nblnb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27866618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theharellan/pseuds/theharellan
Summary: “If there is pride in your eyes, it is in the way you never lower them.” Not many elves remember how, and when they do it is done in anger, defiance. Pride, perhaps, but not like Solas’s. “You carry your pride in your shoulders,” Ian says, his own eyes falling as if in gesture, tracing the line of Solas’s neck where it meets those shoulders. He almost reaches, but that courage is beyond him, and his fingers knot at the hem of his shirt instead. “And…and in your voice.”Upon discovering Ian can only see the world in black and white, Solas asks him some questions about his perception of the world aroung them—and his perception of Solas himself.
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Character(s), Solas/Nonbinary Lavellan
Series: I Have Found a Home (Ian x Solas) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/873849
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	You Brought the Colours Out

**Solas**

“You are colour blind?”

His brow peaks in mild surprise as he tries to picture what the world must look like from Ian’s perspective. Solas has sketched in charcoal, but still measures the world by its colour. Without a piece in his hand he cannot drain the pink from Ian’s cheeks, nor the green glow of the Breach overhead. Only the snow around them plays along, a fresh white blanket that masked the brown, black, and yellow stains.

“Then you see the words in shades of grey.” It is a poetic thought, and he wonders if Ian sees it. “There is… a beauty in that,” he adds with a purposeful sweep of the eyes across Ian’s face.

* * *

**Iander**

“I–” Ian feels heat flush his face, ears canting down and then back up. “…yes. It’s–Sometimes, around twilight, I think I can–but it’s hard to tell, and people describe…like…like that.” He gestures above, to the great glowing rend in the sky. “It looks bright. Like…its competing with the sun. But it’s not…I can’t tell that it…its like mist, but brighter inside, like something burning behind a curtain.” 

That isn’t a good description, and his lips purse. He knows how people say they see the Breach. Green, but not like grass or leaves. Brighter, like acid. But he sees it the way he sees it, crisp edges of twisting tendrils, white against a soft sky. 

But Solas is thinking of something else, the poetic blend of stark contrasts to see the blurred places where they meet, and he studies Ian’s features with an intensity that only inspires the heat in his face to grow, and his eyes dart back toward the Breach, for want of something to look that won’t burn his freckles from his cheeks. 

“Oh–um. I…I sup-suppose. Though I believe the beauty of this world exists whether someone can see it or not.”

* * *

**Solas**

“Fascinating,” he says, his voice the same soft tone it is whenever he discovers something new about the world. “I have never heard of such a condition. In the Fade I have encountered memories of animals, who see in a variety of ways, but never in a person.” Spoken casually, but there is a weight in his words that this world does not measure. For once, Solas does not mourn the fact, fearful of what that weight might imply to Ian if he had heard it.

“That may be a result of elven eyes. We are able to perceive subtle differences in the Fade that others are not– it is curious…” He trails off, almost disappointed when Ian’s face turns away. Although to measure his profile against the Breach, nose carved before a green background, has his hands twitching for pen and paper.

“They say beauty is in the high of the beholder, though I prefer your perspective. Too many fail to see the beauty in a spell.” He finds himself tracing the outline of Ian’s face again, and adds, “or within themselves.”

* * *

**Iander**

“I know some people who struggle with certain colors. Reds and greens, or yellows and blues. I don’t–I don’t know anyone who can’t see any of them. I don’t–I don’t know why I can’t.” It is bothersome, but only when he thinks too much about it. When he worries its a sign of other wrongness. 

He shrugs the thoughts away–an easy task when Solas’s soft words are delivered so pointedly. His blush cannot possibly grow in intensity, and yet his ears burn as he glances back, startled by an addition he’s certain he has misinterpreted. Certain he’s imagining, certain he’s hearing what he wants to hear and not what is actually meant. 

He looks down, shrugging. “Sometimes beauty is hard to recognize. That does not mean it is absent. Something does not need to be perceived to be present, or recognized to be real.”

* * *

**Solas**

“Perhaps it is a sign, a sign that you were always destined to be a wolf.” He smiles impishly, knowing the thought isn’t quite accurate, but enjoying it all the same. The memories of wolves are soft, yellows and blues that fade into greys, though his time as a wolf had always been more colourful, bolstered by the threading of reality and dreams.

For a moment he catches sight of Ian’s eyes, but they meet only a moment before he ducks his head. As if Solas’s gaze burns more harshly than the Breach overhead. He thinks he sees a moment of confusion, swallowed by doubt.

“And what does beauty look like to you?” he asks. “Or perhaps a better question would be: where do you recognise it?”

* * *

**Iander**

Ian snorts, but his lips curl in a smile, ducking his head a little further as he watches Solas out of the corners of his eyes. “A sign requires someone to implement it.” He points out. “And I can think of no divinity who, accepting that they might intervene at all, ought not to have higher priorities.” 

“Beauty…looks like sunrises, spilling through open windows. Mist over spring-bright hills against the dawn…Laughter caught in the corner of a frown when a child gently misbehaves…and…and ribbons hung in a Vhenadahl. And–and…” but his cheeks grow too warm for him to finish the thought, and he shrugs. “Everywhere, if you’re looking for it.”

* * *

**Solas**

_And…_

The thought dangles endlessly, and Solas is not sure if he dares imagine its conclusion. For one called Pride, he hesitates to claim it, merely hoping to. “And…” he echoes, the word soft. “What does that beauty look like to you? I see sunrises and marvel at the blend of colours, or how the white mist crowns fresh green grass.”

“Others may not find the sight worth note, and I would pity them for it, but know they see more or less the same as I. And yet you… I would not blame you for wondering why we stop and stare at the moon, or smile at the sight of daisies. What about them is worthy of your attention? What colour is a sunrise, to your eyes?”

* * *

**Iander**

“And.” Ian says the word as though in agreement, as though it is the completion of a thought. It stands on its own, encompassing all of what he means–whether Solas can hear it or not. 

Solas’s question, though, has no real answer. “Can I not find it beautiful if I do not see it the way others do?” Ian glances up and away, towards a horizon where the sun will settle when the day has finished. “Light washing over hills, pushing at shadows until they vanish. And at twilight, when the sun sets, the moon rises as if to continue its work. Moonlight is more gentle–why wouldn’t I stop to stare, as anyone else?”

What color is a sunrise? Ian knows the answer. He knows the sun splashes in pinks and reds and oranges over snow-dusted hills, and brightens, gaining strength, until the reds wash away. But to his eyes? It looks… “What color is ambition? Or fortitude? Or perseverance? Or…or resolution? Dedication? Sunrises are storied as beginnings, and sunsets as ends. They mark days like chapters in a story, as though no stories happen after dark. But the sun returns the next day, and the day after. I don’t see beginnings there, any more than I see reds or pinks. Sunrises look like…kept promises. Or-or rewarded hope.” His voice trails off, losing strength as he hears himself speak, and feeling foolish at what he’s said. “I don’t…I don’t know. I know what–what I’m supposed to see, but–but I can’t force myself to see it.”

* * *

**Solas**

Solas listens.

It is easy to do, the gentle passion in Ian’s voice demands an ear to hear it. Given where they began, he is not sure how he became the one who has been given the right to listen. His eyes fall to Ian’s mouth, and his teeth absently pinch his bottom lip. He asks what colour ambition is, and fortitude, and wishes to answer– to tell him that before the Veil was pulled over this world ambition was gold or sapphire, or a tender pink as a young couple put forth their plans for a family. That perseverance was the black wings of a dragon in a form never meant for him.

The thoughts stop suddenly, and Solas fights a frown, knowing what it might be interpreted as if Ian chooses to meet his gaze. “I did not mean to imply you couldn’t, merely that I was curious about your perspective. As expected it is… enlightening. You see poetry in the world, every day miracles as some would say.”

A question occurs to him, one that common knowledge will offer no insight. He steps a little closer, eyes fixed upon Ian’s turned gaze. “And what colour are my eyes?”

* * *

**Iander**

“I don’t–I don’t know about poetry. I just see the world. As I said–there is beauty. How one sees it…” He shrugs, still eyeing the skyline. Solas’s words are soft, and very kind, but Ian doesn’t consider himself the sort to compose poetry. Read it, perhaps, when he has access to what books he might. Recite it, should he remember the verse. But to see it, to express it as though it might be born from his own sense of artistry? It seems far-fetched, and beyond his capacities as a simple story teller. 

“What?” 

The question catches him off guard, and he starts, turning to find Solas closer than he remembers, their gazes met across a very short distance. Heat floods his face, and his world narrows until he can see nothing beyond the eyes he must find words to describe. 

“…Courage. Or–or…determination. Curiosity. Knowledge. Green, may–maybe. Or blue? I can’t–I don’t know.” 

His voice is small, overpowered by the sudden drumming of his heart, his breath trapped somewhere in his chest. Uncertain of his footing, he takes a step forward himself, until they are almost chest to chest, and he looks up, willing himself to hold Solas’s gaze–the longest he has managed since first they had been introduced. Despite himself, a faint smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“And mine?”

* * *

**Solas**

If it were humility, Solas might accept Ian’s refusal, but there is a persistence whenever he says anything complimentary towards the other elf that is concerning. A less charming trait, when he considers how willing Ian is to listen when the topic concerns anyone else.

Still, he refuses the deflection, taking it in stride. “What do you think it is that poets do?”

The corners of said eyes crinkle with his smile, pleased with himself. He does not know what ideas his eyes hold, but he knows which he most associates himself with. “But not Pride?” he asks with a chuckle, punctuated by a undisguised snort. “They are blue, if you cannot tell.” More than blue, but to go on would seem vain, and if Ian wants to hear someone go on about their own eye colour he will simply have to speak to Dorian.

His composure is broken when Ian takes another step towards him, boots crunching in the snow, taken aback by how bold Ian has become. The smug smile falters, stomach swooping as he realises when he exhales he can feel his jawbone push against Ian’s clothes. This is all before he has a chance to truly look into Ian’s eyes.

Solas has beheld them before, in moments of weakness he felt himself searching for signs the empty space around them does not offer. “Love,” he begins, before he can stop himself, his thoughts turning to the spirit that had come to him in dreams. “– A persistent sort, like your sunrises, that does not falter in the face of adversity.” The fumble is caught before he trips over his own words, and he breathes in a little easier.

“Fitting, I think, for there is gold in your eyes.” Small flecks in a bed of green, as if the freckles upon his skin are not enough to satisfy. “Did you know?”

* * *

**Iander**

“If there is pride in your eyes, it is in the way you never lower them.” Not many elves remember how, and when they do it is done in anger, defiance. Pride, perhaps, but not like Solas’s. “You carry your pride in your shoulders,” Ian says, his own eyes falling as if in gesture, tracing the line of Solas’s neck where it meets those shoulders. He almost reaches, but that courage is beyond him, and his fingers knot at the hem of his shirt instead. “And…and in your voice.”

“L–” Something in his chest grows wings, fluttering rapidly against his ribs until his head feels as light as his face feels warm. “N-no. I–I didn’t know.” 

His head feels light, and his face feels warm, and something in his chest is fluttery and sweet, and his courage fails as he takes a step back. His courage fails, but even as his head ducks, his eyes continue to search, and the smile that pulls his lips left persists.

* * *

**Solas**

He does not consider himself a self-conscious person, especially not in matters of physical appearance.

Yet as Ian’s eyes examine him, skirting the breadth of his shoulders, he feels acutely aware of what he must look like. Perhaps he ought to fear him looking too closely, and seeing the age in his eyes, or finding fault in the cleft in his chin. Instead, he wonders what else Ian sees other than pride when he regards, or rather, what he might imagine. It is impossible when they stand this close for Solas to stop himself from seeing what they might look like in one another’s arms. The thought burns the tips of his ears.

“It seems a shame,” he hums, head tilting to one side. “That no one has thought to look before now.” Or perhaps, no one has been allowed. It is difficult to say which thought makes him sadder.

Ian pulls away as quickly as he stepped forward, and his heart sinks alongside his boots in the snow. For a moment, he had thought… hoped–

“You continue to surprise me,” he says after a pause, fighting to keep his disappointment from his voice. “Not a day goes by where you do not teach me something, lethallen.” Solas drops the word easily, despite its weight, lifting the same gaze Ian had only just said never faltered (he had not realised it had fallen) to watch how fondly Ian smiles.

* * *

**Iander**

“I’ve never asked anyone to.” Ian says, almost matter-of-fact. He thinks of pointing out that his mother knows what his eyes look like–that they look so much like his father’s as to bring her to tears. That she had paused, needle hovering over the bridge of his nose, to study them intently when she had bestowed his Vallaslin. She had not described them to him, then, and she had blinked too quickly, and she had turned her gaze instead to his skin, and he had closed his eyes and done his best to keep still. 

He thinks of pointing out that his mother knows his eyes have gold, but it’s not the same as Solas knowing. And now, Ian knows it too. It’s a strange sort of knowledge, learning about himself, and he wonders what he looks like, with gold glinting in his eyes. Is that common? Would asking appear vain? 

Ian’s ears cant forward, latching on to Solas’s words as the fluttering in his chest grows more frantic. “I–ahn!” He chuckles, a soft, rolling laugh that finds its shape in the curve of his smile, and he catches Solas’s gaze–blue, he tells himself, and wonders what that looks like (blue like sky, like waves, like soft-petaled flowers?)–and he shrugs. “I wonder what I shall teach you tomorrow. And what you shall teach me.”

* * *

**Solas**

“Then I am honoured to be the first who had the pleasure.” Never asked– Solas notes the distinction. It does not lessen the giddy feeling that keeps lifting his lungs, like pockets of air rising in his stomach. If anything, it urges them. The first invited, he wonders what he did to earn it, and what it might mean.

Every word Ian speaks births a new question, some too forward to ask. Even his pauses, the beginning of a thought that trips into exclamation, then laughter elicit questions. When Solas smiles it brims with fondness, his eyes creasing in their corners. He feels an ache in his cheeks, a welcome feeling that he had almost forgotten until recently. How long has it been? Once the ache of laughter was familiar as air in his lungs, he had never thought that he would find it again here, of all places.

“I know not, and would prefer to keep it that way. Else I would have one less reason to wake up in the morning.” He pauses, eyes turning to the space between them. Space that had not been there a moment ago. “I hope you know I am grateful– for indulging my questions, that is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written on Tumblr by theharellan and theshirallen (TheBraveHobbit). Reposted for archiving purposes.


End file.
